


hit me with your best shot

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>martin brodeur ties patrick roy's all-time win record on March 14, 2009. but don't think that makes them even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hit me with your best shot

**Author's Note:**

> a note for the "sea of red" mentioned at the end regarding the Devils -- the Habs were wearing 1909-1910 centennial jerseys, so the Devils were wearing their home red. also yes the title is from the pat benatar song, what.

**hit me with your best shot**

 

_14 March, 2009 -- 8:35 am_

His father answers the knock at the door that morning. Martin assumes it is housekeeping, come to take away the breakfast dishes. 

"Ah. Martin. Someone has come to see you and wish you luck." 

There's an implied _so come in here and let them_ in his father's voice, which Martin finds vaguely annoying. He's trying to treat this like any other game, despite the media circus surrounding it, and follow his usual routine. He's thrilled his friends and family are here to celebrate with him, of course, but he can't afford to be distracted by them right now or there won't be anything to celebrate. 

But he knows how much this means to his father, so he stands up and walks into the foyer. The man standing there is definitely not family, and would only count as a _friend_ in very certain circumstances. 

" _Bon matin_ , Martin." 

Martin can see his father smiling. Gestures like this mean a lot to him, impress him very much. Denis Brodeur would give Lady Byng a run for her money. Politely, of course, and he would probably let her win because she was a lady. 

Martin steps forward and holds out his hand. " _Bon matin_ , Patrick." 

Patrick Roy smiles and shakes his hand. It's a firm grip, almost painful. He's clean-shaven, dressed in a suit despite the early hour. "I wanted to stop by and wish you good luck tonight. It will be an honor to share a record with you. I always knew when this day came, it would be you." 

"Thank you, Patrick. That means a lot to me." He can feel his father's eyes on him, can practically hear his voice saying _invite the man for coffee, Martin._

He doesn't do it. He watches Roy shake his father's hand, watches them make small talk. His father invites Patrick for coffee, pointedly not looking at Martin. Patrick declines the invitation politely. 

There's a red mark on his neck. All of Martin's focus is on that mark, and the way Patrick reaches up and touches it as he's talking to his father. 

"I'll be at the game tonight, Martin," Patrick says, turning towards him suddenly. His smile is a lot different now that Martin's father can't see it, and Martin knows with infuriating certainty that Patrick caught him staring. "Quite the place to achieve history. Fitting for us both, don't you think?' 

"Yes," Martin says, and he knows his voice is short but he can't help himself. "And speaking of the Bell Center, I should get ready to go there." 

"Of course. I don't want to keep you." Patrick winks at him, that smile of his returning to polite, parent-appropriate as he turns back towards Martin's father. "I hope you enjoy your son's achievement, Mr. Brodeur. He's certainly earned it." 

Martin wants to hit him, but he can't. He stays frozen in place, watching as Patrick lets himself out. His father says something about his manners, though the recrimination is mostly without heat. Martin barely pays attention to him. He imagines Patrick walking down the hallway, laughing. 

"That was nice of him, to come here and say that to you. Wasn't it, Martin?" 

_No. He only did it because he knew what it would do to my concentration, and he doesn't want me to win._ In his younger days, he might have said that out loud. But he just makes another one of those noises that could mean anything and says quietly, "I should get ready to go." 

"Yes, of course, of course. It is strange how he was able to get your room number -- though I suppose that when you are Patrick Roy, it is easy to get almost anything you want, even in Montreal." Denis chuckles. "He is still recognized here, after all this time." 

Martin knows exactly how Patrick got his room number, but he will go to his grave a thousand times over before he ever tells his father that. Let him think it was Patrick's infamy that got him that information. 

Technically, it's the truth. 

 

_13 March, 2009 -- 11:35 pm_

"I used to have a poster of you. In my bedroom." Martin shoves Patrick against the closed door in his room, trapping him with his hands on either side of his head. "Did you know that?" 

"I think I read that somewhere," Patrick says. "Obsessed with me from a young age, eh, _Marty_?" 

Martin smacks him across the face. He's wanted to do that for a long time. It doesn't even take away from the satisfaction when Patrick moans and pulls at him, drags him in closer. "With beating you, perhaps." 

Patrick tilts his head back and grins at him, wild-eyed. Martin remembers watching highlights from the game versus Detroit, when Patrick mocked the Montreal crowd and skated over to tell the GM it was his last game in Montreal. The camera followed him when he sat momentarily on the bench and grinned like a crazy man -- like a crazy man who had gotten exactly what he wanted. 

He remembers watching footage of Patrick fighting Vernon, and then Osgood. Smiling despite the blood on his face when the refs pulled him away. 

It's the same smile. 

"But that's not all. Is it, Martin?" 

"No." Martin leans in and kisses him. "That's not all." 

It never is. 

 

_14 March, 2009 ~ 2:02 am_

"You need to leave." 

Patrick is buckling his belt, giving every indication that he's doing just that, but Martin says it anyway. It feels like he has to, like he'll lose if he doesn't. 

Everything between them is a competition, a careful structuring of wins and losses and achievements. This is no different.

_Wins. Shut-outs. Stanley Cup Rings. Conn Smythe Trophies. Divorces. Marital scandals. Illicit sex in a hotel room._

Some things are easier to measure than others.

The sheets and comforter are a tangled mess on the floor. Martin watches as Patrick kicks them aside, looking for his other shoe. The absurdity of what just happened makes him want to laugh, so he turns away and looks in the mirror over the antique dresser instead. 

Martin has always thought Montreal hotels are furnished like they're trying to trick you into thinking you're in someone's house. This one reminds him of his great aunt's. Minus the man he just went to bed with, who's sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes. 

Patrick meets his eyes in the mirror. "I remember the first time we did this. Do you?" 

Martin does, to the day. But he just shrugs, like he either doesn't remember or it isn't important. 

Patrick laughs -- it's unkind, there's something mean in the way his mouth twists when he smiles. "Of course you do. I was on your wall for you, and you were on your back for me. I remember it, Martin. Like it was yesterday." He winks at him in the mirror as he stands up. "Like it was twenty minutes ago, eh?" 

Patrick crosses towards him, leans in and says softly, "It doesn't mean anything. You breaking my record. I'm retired, so it's....someone has to. It's inevitable. Might as well be someone who idolized me. Someone who practically begged for it, the first time I put them in their place." 

Patrick tries to kiss him. Martin jerks his head away before he can. "Get out." 

"I'm going to be there tomorrow. In the stands. I'm going to cheer and say nice things about you if you win." Patrick leans in again, breath warm on Martin's skin. 

Martin pushes him back. " _When_ I win. I said get out." 

"I think you will. But I hope you don't." Patrick's expression turns angry, and there's more than just unkindness there, there's malice. Malice, and some twisted version of affection. "Do you hear me? I hope you lose. I want to watch you fail." 

Patrick smacks him, like Martin did to him earlier, and Martin has to catch his own moan behind his teeth. "Don't you turn away from me like that. I'm still better than you. I'll always be better than you." 

This time when Patrick tries to kiss him, Martin lets him. 

 

_14 March -- 5:49 am_

Martin wakes up when Patrick gets out of bed. He lays there in the darkness, eyes closed, perfectly still and breathing evenly. It doesn't stop Patrick from talking. Nothing much ever does. 

"If you win tonight, I'll let you fuck me." 

Patrick could possibly think he's sleeping, but Martin doubts that. So much of being a good goalie is anticipating movement and reading body language, and Patrick is, after all, one of the best. 

As far as attempts for getting in his head go, this a good one. It's something Martin wants, badly, because he's never had it. And when you're promised something you've always wanted as a reward, it can make the mental state needed to win that much harder to attain. 

Luckily, Martin is very good with pressure. He smiles in the darkness and doesn't say a word. 

"But you probably won't. So don't get your hopes up, kid. See you in the madhouse." 

He's asleep before the door closes. 

 

_14 March -- 3:30 pm_

" _Que pensez-vous de Patrick étant à la match de ce soir, Martin?_ "

_What do you think of Patrick being at the game tonight, Martin?_

It's always _Martin_ in Montreal, never _Marty_. The latter is Atlantic City and long highways that stretch down into Florida, the American anthem before games and the easy friendship of his adopted countrymen. 

_Martin_ is Saint-Leonard and poutine, ball hockey in the street and the lilt of his native language echoing like a song. Standing along the street and cheering for his idol as the Cup went by at the parade. Martin was just a face in the crowd back then. 

Martin's media-smile flashes, sharp and bright like the lights. He's a lot more than that, now. " _Je suis honoré._ "

_I'm honored._

 

_14 March, 2009 -- 12:29 First Period_

Plekanec's wrist shot catches him completely by surprise, brings the Habs to within a goal with two periods left to play. 

Martin breathes in, steadily, as he knocks the puck out of the net. There is no need to panic, it's just a goal, it's over and forgotten. He can hear the crowd cheering. He imagines Patrick in the stands, wonders if he's cheering, too. 

_I'm still better than you. I'll always be better than you._

Martin looks at the ice until he feels it in his veins, like he's a part of it. Sixteen shots or sixty, whatever the next two periods bring he's not letting a single one of them in. 

He wants Patrick to cheer and not mean it, wants every clap to feel like a whip laid across his soul. It only counts if it's not sincere. 

It only counts if Martin wins. 

 

_14 March, 2009 -- second period intermission_

There's no real mention of it in the locker room between the second and third period. The game is too close, and even if it wasn't, they're all too superstitious to do that. Maybe some of them would scoff and say they weren't, but that doesn't mean they're going to break the code. 

Well. One of them does. On his way out, Brendan Shanahan claps him on the back and says cheerfully, "One more to go, Marty. You show that piece of shit motherfucker that you're better than him. We got this." Shanahan's dislike of Roy stretches back to his days in Detroit, when the rivalry between the Wings and the Avalanche was at its zenith. He may be the happiest Devil after Marty himself about this milestone. 

"I always knew you'd be a great goddamn goalie. Right from the first day you walked in with that creepy mustache we made you shave. Remember how you kept losing at cards because you didn't speak English, but knew enough to insist you should play?" 

Martin laughs, because he does remember that. He also remembers Shanahan's rough, easy camaraderie in the locker room, and how, even when he was with the Wings, he'd make a point to skate over and say hi. He'd trash talk Martin with the best of them, but always with that grin like it was just part of the game. Just like beating him at cards. 

Also he usually said shit in French that Martin taught him. It was always wrong. 

Martin bumps Shanahan's helmet with his own, in the parlance of their sport that means _thank you_ and a thousand other well-wishes. Martin appreciates the reminder   
that despite all the media attention, this isn't just about achieving a personal victory over a rival. It's about his teammates, too. 

No matter what else is at stake, what other promises wait on the other end, Martin is going to go win this one for his teammates. Just like any other game. 

The ice is slick when he skates out for the third, the lights trapped within. It makes it look like it's glowing. 

 

_14 March, 2009 -- 18:95 Third Period_

It's impossible not to watch the clock at the end. 

He hasn't had butterflies in his stomach during a game in years, and the last time he watched the clock count down with such ferocity had been the final minute right before the Devils won the Cup in '95. That might have been the last time he had butterflies, come to think of it. 

There's a minute left on the clock when he catches the cameraman turning his camera on him. 

He winks. 

Martin can hear the crowd long before he hears the horn, and just like that, it's over. They're still cheering, which means they're cheering for _him_ , and it's almost overwhelming to think that he's getting a _standing ovation_ from the crowd as a member of the opposing team. 

Martin raises his stick to acknowledge their praise. Montreal is a hard city in which to play hockey, no matter what colors you're wearing on your back. The fans are exacting, demanding, and their favor is easy to win and yet impossible to keep. 

That makes Martin think about Patrick. Trapped there, standing with the same crowd he once mocked and subsequently felt the metaphorical pitchforks of their displeasure, cheering as a rival he doesn't like ties a record he can't defend. 

His teammates descend in a sea of red and congratulations, and he lets himself get caught up in the celebration of it, tells himself he's earned it. Elias brings him the puck, which he catches in his glove. Shanahan jokes that he's lucky he didn't drop that or it might have gone in, and the Montreal refs would have counted it as a goal. 

Martin looks over at his father. He's hiding behind the lens of camera, but he can still see him smiling. The crowd in Montreal is still standing, cheering. 

It's a good moment. 

 

_14 March, 2009 -- 9:35 pm_

Post-game, there are the inevitable interviews and photographs. Martin answers questions easily, he knows what's expected of him and he knows what to say. 

He and Patrick exchange handshakes for the camera. For a few moments as the flashes brighten the air around them, Martin allows himself to feel that same giddy joy as he did the first time he faced Patrick Roy across the ice. 

Sixteen years and four hundred and seventy-something wins later, here he is again. 

He's going to break the record, of course he will. If not Tuesday in New Jersey, it will come sometime soon enough. For now it's enough to share it with the man who has infuriated and inspired him, usually at the same time. 

For once the score is even, and Martin can't find it in himself to mind. 

 

_15 March, 2009 -- 1:45 am_

When Martin gets back to his room, buzzing from the liquor and the evening's success, he finds a note stuck to the door of his suite. 

_4-3. 3-0. every goddamn fucking time-0._

It takes him a few seconds to puzzle out the meaning, and when he does, his mouth twists in something that is maybe a smile, maybe a snarl. 

Four Stanley Cups to Martin's three. Three Conn Smythe trophies to his zero. And every fucking time -- ah. 

Apparently Patrick had enough of Martin matching his achievements for one evening.

It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. It shouldn't be a disappointment, but it's that, too. Of course Patrick would do this, provide the only dark stain on an otherwise pristine day. He's like the only cloud in a summer's sky, or a drop of blood on the ice. 

Martin crumples the note in his fist and throws it away in the trashcan. It doesn't matter. Clouds drift by and the ice always melts. 

He tries to put it out of his mind, but as he lays in bed he wonders what would have happened if he'd lost. If he'd be going to bed alone.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep. 

 

_15 March, 2009 -- 9:30 am_

Martin boards the plane home with the wrinkled paper smoothed out and folded as neatly as he could manage in his wallet. 

One day he'll take great pleasure in crossing out those numbers. 

Every single one.


End file.
